


Rosy

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While still in Valinor’s laws, Fëanor receives a special offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rosy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s been three days since he’s seen his bed—at least, that’s what his assistants told him; when Fëanáro’s at work, very little can tear him away. Even gone and perched on the foot of his mattress, his mind strays back to the forge. He’s blown out all the candles early to try and tempt himself to sleep, only the muffled light that creeps through the curtains to guide him. He’s just peeled off his second boot when the door opens, and his head jerks up— _no one_ is allowed in his private chambers, these that are just _his_ , not even Nerdanel. The elf that slips inside could, perhaps, in times of great strain, pass for him.

Curufinwë seals the doors behind himself without losing his father’s gaze. He dips his head in subservience, maybe an apology, and he sweeps forward gracefully, slow as though bashful, though Fëanáro knows him well enough to see straight through it. “I am impressed,” Fëanáro admits, as Curufinwë climbs onto the bed beside him. “You evaded my guards.” Or seduced them to his bidding, or simply convinced them to obey: Curufinwë’s tongue is as well-thought as his father’s. Curufinwë smiles at the praise. 

“Nothing can keep me from you,” he responds sweetly. When he’s settled on the mattress, half beside and half behind Fëanáro, Curufinwë leans forward to press a chaste peck to Fëanáro’s temple, the way Fëanáro used to kiss his forehead when he was young and small. “But you look tired,” he frets on withdrawal. “You have been working too long.”

“I work as long as my art requires,” Fëanáro answers simply. He’s spent much longer away, but he knows there’s more to Curufinwë’s motives than that worry. He doesn’t bother to move, because Curufinwë is already shifting to sit behind him, knees spreading to part around him. He starts to twist Fëanáro’s hair, and Fëanáro helps to gather it over his shoulder, having some idea where this is going.

Curufinwë’s hands are nearly as skilled as his mouth. He lifts them to Fëanáro’s shoulders and spreads his long fingers, digging in through Fëanáro’s silken robes to knead the tensed muscle below. Fëanáro lets out a relaxed sigh that no other could draw from him. He isn’t one to seek idle rest, but it never stops his sons from pampering him. Only with one of the seven creatures that Fëanáro trusts fully does he allow his guard to falter, and he leans back into the eager press of his son’s warm hands. 

“You are tense, Atya,” Curufinwë murmurs, both playful and scolding. He weaves broad circles from the tip of Fëanáro’s spine to the dip of his lower back, then draws back up, always with enough pressure to make Fëanáro hiss delightfully between his teeth. It’s been too long since he’s had a proper massage. Curufinwë delivers like no one else, perhaps because Curufinwë understands his body so implicitly. Every careful touch is designed especially for Fëanáro. His favourite child never disappoints. 

His favourite child likes to be pet, and so Fëanáro sighs, “You are very good to me, my Curvo.”

“You deserve only the best, Atya,” Curufinwë purrs in response. His devotion is clear in his touches. The fabric of Fëanáro’s robes seems to become thinner and thinner as Curufinwë works him, playing him and worshipping him. He’s malleable and truly content by the time Curufinwë’s leaned in, so that his breath tickles the back of Fëanáro’s ear. 

The massage lingers, far longer than Fëanáro would ask of any servant—Curufinwë is tireless and dedicated, and Fëanáro enjoys the sensation too much to end it. Besides, he never likes to deny a gift from his prodigy. But then Curufinwë’s lips brush the tip of Fëanáro’s ear, and the touches stray lower, dancing fluidly around his hips. They’re becoming more and more intimate as the massage lingers on. When Curufinwë mouths at his shell, Fëanáro warns, “Curvo.”

Curufinwë stills his mouth but not his hands, ever fearless. He never outright disobeys his father, but he’ll push as far as he can. He purrs over Fëanáro’s shoulder, “Mother does not take care of you well enough.”

Fëanáro wants to sigh. His relationship with his wife is strained at best, and though his children love her, he knows that he alone holds their true hearts. Curufinwë, most of all, has always been _his_. Curufinwë has little of his mother in him. And now he offers to replace her, at least in Fëanáro’s private chambers, and Fëanáro would need to lie to say he hadn’t seen it coming. Curufinwë tentatively licks the nape of Fëanáro’s neck beneath all the swept-aside hair, his hot breath tempting on its own. He purrs, smooth and wanton, “Let me do that for you, Atya.”

Somehow, rejection doesn’t leave Fëanáro’s lips fast enough. Curufinwë takes his chance to slip around Fëanáro’s body, coming to the front, where he tosses one leg over Fëanáro’s and moves to straddle them. He sits in Fëanáro’s lap, warm and ripe, and now that Fëanáro gets a good look at him, he sees that Curufinwë’s worn nothing beneath his robes, and he’s barelegged beneath his thighs. He brings his talented hands to cup Fëanáro’s face, and he tilts forward to bring theirs lips together. 

He’s good at this, too, but inexperienced. He presses against Fëanáro with fervor, their noses bumping until he shifts to the side, mouth mewling as he slips out an insistent tongue to push at Fëanáro’s mouth. Fëanáro had thought to keep it chaste but can’t stifle his chuckle, and he uses the transition to pull Curufinwë’s tongue into his own mouth and suck on it. Curufinwë moans helplessly and bucks into him, flattening all their bodies together. Fëanáro lifts one hand to his waist, the other soothingly stroking his back, and then Fëanáro gives in to playing with his son’s mouth until Curufinwë is rocking them together hard enough to threaten knocking them down. 

Curufinwë clearly doesn’t want them to part. He chases Fëanáro’s mouth, but Fëanáro fondly turns away, chastising, “You are a very naughty thing, kissing your atar like that.”

Curufinwë’s answer is a needy whine and another rut of his hips. When he can’t have Fëanáro’s mouth, he kisses Fëanáro’s cheek, licking down to suck at Fëanáro’s jaw, his fingers running through Fëanáro’s hair before clinging to Fëanáro’s robes. He holds on with a vice-like grip, moaning against Fëanáro’s skin, “I just want to please you, Atya. I can. I have always been loyal to you, good for you. I am _meant_ for you. I look like you—everyone says it—and I am named for you. I even _think_ like you; I know I do. I cherish and learn all your skills. I am sure I am Eru’s gift to you...” He shudders while he speaks, his body so sensually grinding against Fëanáro’s. His soft thighs are so alluring, wrapped around Fëanáro, and he can feel his son’s bulge growing to rub against his crotch. He can see a hint of Curufinwë’s smooth chest beneath his robes, his long hair gathered back and neatly combed, his cheeks pink and his eyes heavy-lidded. His mouth remains glistening wet from being kissed, and when Fëanáro lifts a thumb to wipe it clean, Curufinwë sucks that thumb into his mouth. 

A part of Fëanáro—a much larger part than he’d care to admit—wants to spear his darling boy open on his cock. He’d love to have this pretty thing ride him, bounce lewdly up and down in his lap and scream their shared name. Curufinwë is young, but old enough for this decision, and there is some truth to his words. It’s clear the Valar never meant for a father to touch their son this way, but the Valar have never made a soul like Fëanáro, son of Finwë, and Curufinwë’s is one to match. Every day, Fëanáro seems to find more and more delights that the Valar would deny him. 

Someday, perhaps, he’ll break free of them. He’ll take what he deserves: what he’s made with his own hands and comes to him willingly. But not quite yet. Tirion is largely removed from Valmar, but not untouchable. 

He pulls his thumb from Curufinwë’s pert mouth and orders, “Turn around.”

Curufinwë’s eyes flash sharply with a mixture of confusion and excitement. He obeys, releasing Fëanáro to turn, so that he can lean his back along Fëanáro’s frame, his head arching back and his hands running down Fëanáro’s thighs. He coos, “Will you let me love you, Atar?”

“Not tonight.”

Curufinwë scowls suddenly, bringing an amused grin to Fëanáro’s face. He doesn’t bother with it, simply takes hold of his son’s lithe waist and hauls Curufinwë up the bed. Fëanáro crawls back to the headboard, where he kicks the blankets out and pushes Curufinwë beneath them. Surprised but over it instantly, Curufinwë scoots beneath them. As Fëanáro settles down beside him, Curufinwë tries to roll over, but Fëanáro pushes him forward and clamps Curufinwë back tight to him. He spoons Curufinwë, forcing him to stay turned away, but their bodies still flushed together, still in robes that Fëanáro knows would be dangerous to remove now. Curufinwë squirms against him, pleading softly, “Atya—”

“Be still, my Curvo,” Fëanáro purrs into the whimsical curve of Curufinwë’s delicate ear. “I have not denied you. Our time has simply not yet come, and I cannot yet afford the complication others will make this.”

“You will be lord,” Curufinwë answers breathlessly, writhing to grind his tight rear against Fëanáro’s crotch. “Others will listen to you—”

“Others listen to the Valar,” Fëanáro corrects. “But that may not always be. And I do not ask you to wait always. You are my greatest treasure, Curufinwë, and I will have you in any way that you will give yourself, when the time comes... if you are good in the meantime.”

Curufinwë stops squirming instantly. A moment passes, where Fëanáro plays with the dark hairs spilling over Curufinwë’s slim shoulder. Finally, he murmurs, less sullenly than Fëanáro would’ve thought, “Yes, Atya. I will be good. ...And I will wait.”

Fëanáro hisses, “Good boy, Curvo,” right in Curufinwë’s ears. Curufinwë shivers, then lies still again, though Fëanáro can feel the _want_ radiating from him. He will be more than worth the wait, when it comes. 

He falls asleep fairly quickly, wrapped tight in his father’s arms, and only then does Fëanáro allow him to turn over in his sleep.

Fëanáro lies awake far longer, ever thinking.


End file.
